


Dramatis Personae

by Carrogath



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Nonbinary Character, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25648198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carrogath/pseuds/Carrogath
Summary: Dorothea learns to stop acting. Ingrid learns how to start.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:**

> CW: mention of vomiting, gender discussion
> 
> Ingrid is nonbinary in this story.

No other building embodied the Empire’s extravagant dedication to the arts quite like the Imperial Opera House did. Ingrid already felt dwarfed by its massive size, but faced with its proud colonnades and gracefully curving arches, the facade bleeding pre-Seiros mythological figures wrought out of gilded copper and stone, and the twisting, intricate ironwork snaking along the sides, she felt unworthy to even gaze upon the building, let alone enter it. She’d spent the better part of her day, among other things, pacing circuitously around the theater district—pausing in front of the Opera House at regular intervals to stare at it—gnawing nervously on meat skewers and flatbreads purchased at market stalls, and worrying incessantly about the state of her affairs with Dorothea.

It had been over a year since the end of Edelgard’s war on the Church. The entire period they could not have exchanged more than one or two letters, and yet over the course of that fateful year Ingrid had come to a number of life-altering realizations the explication of which Dorothea was now owed. While a part of her still lay open and bleeding—turned raw and wounded by Dorothea’s indecorous words—Ingrid considered herself to be above such fainthearted weakness. If she found herself incapable of expressing her own views, then what possible hope had she in participating in any other facet of society? She had even considered buying a bouquet of flowers to illustrate her point, but then thought better of it. Her intent was not to court Dorothea herself, as Dorothea may have once assumed, but rather, to describe the modes by which Ingrid might court her were she so inclined. Much as she yearned for it, she couldn’t imagine any other method she might employ to express the thoughts that lay most deeply within her heart.

And yet, it felt inadequate. Were he of any importance to her now, her father would have spurned her for even thinking such traitorous thoughts, let alone believing them. He would have instructed her mother to tie her corset a little tighter, powder her face a little harder. Prove to her once and for all what it meant to be one living in her particular skin. He would never have spared a thought for her outside of how useful she was as a broodmare, a financial asset, the sole symbol of their family’s peerage. He would have never spared a thought for her beyond how she could benefit him. Though she reflected upon it frequently, she rejected the notion that they could have reached an understanding. Her father would only ever see her as a daughter and a wife and a woman, and Ingrid couldn’t see herself as any of those things.

“What then?” her father would have asked. “What else could there possibly be left?”

Ingrid’s jaw trembled.

“Everything,” she hissed, and pushed open the great double doors of the opera house and forced her way in.

The interior was breathtaking. Ingrid immediately felt cowed and began to back away toward the entrance. A splendid marble staircase split into two separate flights at the top, rows upon rows of balconies lining the walls above, and the vaulted ceilings were painted with angels and horses and chariots and saints and every inch of wall and ceiling was covered in florid painting and sculpture and even in the fading light she could see how opulent everything was, how little sense it made for her to be here for something as simple as a friendly visit. She imagined the staircase and balconies filled with only the most fashionable of lords and ladies—pleated gowns of silk brocade, jewelry that glittered and shone in the light, coats and shoes that had never seen more than a few days’ worth of use—and recalled feeling plain and impoverished when compared to her peers and hating herself for it. More urgently, it would soon be evening, and she couldn’t imagine navigating this place in the dark.

Ingrid felt a spike of apprehension. Had she misread Dorothea’s letter? Was she not supposed to be here? She couldn’t see a single other soul in the room. Was their meeting actually tomorrow?

Just as she was about to turn around and leave, she saw the flicker of a candle out of the corner of her eye.

“My dear Ingrid. Trying to run away already?”

Nothing about the Opera House, interior or exterior, could compare to the Mittelfrank Company’s very own prima donna, naturally. Dorothea was resplendent in sea green as she descended the staircase, gripping the railing with one hand while she held a light in the other. Her heels clicked against the marble, echoing in the spacious chamber. Ingrid’s first thought was that her gown matched the color of her eyes. Her second was that she should possibly stop staring.

She waited until Dorothea had only a few steps left, and then held her hand out at the base of the stairs. Dorothea accepted it, grasping her fingers and descending the staircase with a grin.

Ingrid let go as she reached the bottom. “My lady,” she said, stepping back with a bow.

“My knight.” Dorothea left her candlestick on the railing and curtsied. Her eyes twinkled with amusement as she straightened up. “Burgundy, huh?” Her gaze dipped down below Ingrid’s collar before rising up to her face again. “I didn’t think that was your color.”

“I could say the same for you and turquoise,” Ingrid countered.

“Well,” said Dorothea, “it seems that we’re wearing each other’s colors today. It looks splendid on you, by the way,” and suddenly Ingrid couldn’t stop thinking about the way Dorothea’s gaze had lingered on her chest; “I didn’t mean to be at all dismissive.”

“Oh, um,” Ingrid swallowed the lump in her throat, “yes. Yes, well, there’s nothing wrong with a little change every now and then.”

Dorothea stepped forward, so that she blocked out everything else in Ingrid’s view and made it difficult to look at any one part of her for too long—one second it was the sweeping low neckline of her dress and the soft sheen of her hair, another it was the tight folds of cloth around her stomach where the bodice fastened her dress together and the lengthy expanse of stockinged leg.

Dorothea’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“So,” she said, her curls bouncing, “I told you what I thought about your coat. Now you tell me what you think about my gown.”

Ingrid looked up and smiled at her. “You look flawless, as always.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “That’s all you have to say? Really?”

Ingrid laughed. “You didn’t strike me as the type to fish for compliments.”

“One of the many exceptions I’ll make for you, and you alone, my dear.” She shifted her weight to her other leg. How comfortable could it possibly be to stand in those shoes? “Now do say something nice about my outfit.”

Ingrid held back a sigh. “I have known no greater honor,” she made a sweeping bow, “than to have been granted the permission to lay my eyes upon a vision of such splendorous and unparalleled beauty. I beg you humbly to find it in your heart to forgive me, for I fear that no words in any human language are capable of describing that which I now feel having beheld such a wondrous sight, and find myself so utterly entranced that I may never look upon another woman and feel the same way again.”

Dorothea blinked, as if to confirm Ingrid was finished speaking. Ingrid stared back.

“Did you make that up on the spot?”

Ingrid stood up. “Indeed I did.”

“Goddess, we have a thespian in the making here. Why didn’t you tell me you could talk like that?” Dorothea smacked Ingrid on the shoulder, characteristically glib. “We’ll make an actress out of you yet.”

Ingrid rubbed her shoulder tenderly where Dorothea had hit her. She hadn’t been gentle. “Um… Is that why you asked me to meet you here?”

“Oh, no. I wanted to give you a tour of the opera house, but my meeting with the director ran long and now it’s long past too late,” she sighed. “Unless…” She tapped her chin. “Well, it’s not the same, but we could always pass by the Mittelfrank offices where we keep all our old costumes and props. There’s some old folios, posters… gifts from adoring fans… It’s not exactly center stage, but it’s got the spirit of the place.”

Ingrid looked up at the gilded ceiling. “The spirit of the place, you say…”

“A bit flashy, isn’t it?” Dorothea smiled wryly. “And all those nobles assume I know exactly what it feels like to only have one diamond instead of two on my twenty-four-carat gold brooch.”

“I know exactly how that feels,” Ingrid said bitterly.

“Then let’s get out of here,” Dorothea patted her shoulder, “and make it a date.”

* * *

They wound up at the market, in the main square in front of the opera house. Ingrid sat on a hard wooden bench overlooking the water and puffed on a piping hot fried rice ball.

“ _Supplì_ , eh?” Dorothea said, looking on in interest. There were a few more in the basket they’d been given, resting on the bench between them. “I haven’t had one of these in a while.”

“They’re greasy, filling, and cheap,” said Ingrid. “And they’re by far more flavorful than wartime rations. I’ve had to restrain myself ever since the war ended—I can’t look to food whenever I’m stressed.”

“Oh, Ingrid…”

The sky was fading from yellow-orange to bruised purple. Ingrid bit down on her snack, letting the melted cheese and moist, flavorful rice fill her mouth. She let out a groan, pulling the other half back to watch the cheese stretch out between her hand and her mouth.

“Oh, dammit. Stop making it look so good. Now I want one.”

Ingrid pulled apart the long strand of cheese and swallowed. “There’s four left. Be my guest.” She popped the other half into her mouth.

Dorothea picked one up from the basket and stared at it. “I used to beg these off the vendors, a lifetime ago,” she chuckled. “Now they’ll give me the whole batch for free.”

“Really?” Ingrid looked at her. “Then you should have asked.”

“As if your sense of honor would have allowed it,” she snorted. She bit into the rice ball, gasping as the filling entered her mouth.

Ingrid watched as she chewed, then swallowed.

“Holy shit. These are amazing.” She ate the rest of hers without reserve, staring greedily at the basket for more. “Was that guy always here?”

Ingrid laughed. “There are probably a lot more of them around on the night of a performance,” she mused. “You have to be good to expect to sell enough every day to earn a living from it.”

Dorothea wiped the crumbs from her hands. “The sunset’s nice.”

Ingrid looked at her. Her tone suggested she was interested in something that was decidedly not sunset-like. “Dorothea?”

A few pigeons landed on the cobblestone in front of them, bobbing their heads and cooing.

“Oh, no, you don’t…” Dorothea leaned down to remove her shoe, making vaguely threatening gestures at the birds.

“That’s…” Ingrid held out her hand to stop her. “Dorothea, it’s fine. I’ll finish the rest.”

“You’ve never had to fight the little bastards for anything.”

Ingrid squeezed her shoulder and sighed. Dorothea looked up at her, and then down at the position of her hand. Ingrid didn’t miss it when she blushed.

“Sorry.” Dorothea sat up. “Normally I wouldn’t be so… out of character, I suppose, but…” Dorothea looked at her again. “Something about the way you’re behaving today makes me not want to try anymore.”

Ingrid stuffed another _supplì_ in her mouth, this time whole, to avoid having to respond to her.

She picked one up out of the basket and turned it around in her hand. “You look very handsome today, you know. More than usual, even.”

Ingrid chewed slower.

Dorothea’s gaze dropped even more obviously to her chest. “Were you trying to impress me by wearing my favorite color?”

She had time. She chewed slowly, swallowed a portion, and then chewed again.

“Are you breathing all right in that?”

Ingrid choked. She swallowed hard, eyes tearing up as she beat furiously on her chest. Those damned grains of rice just had to get stuck somewhere, didn’t they?

Dorothea put down the rice ball and stood up. “Ingrid, are you all right?”

“Yes—fuck…” Ingrid coughed. “Water…”

Dorothea returned about three agonizing minutes later from one of the vendors with a cup of water. Ingrid chugged it until she could feel her throat clearing, and swallowed huge gulps of air.

Then she glared at her. “I was breathing just fine until you said that.”

“Sorry.” Dorothea grinned guiltily back. “I didn’t think you’d be so surprised.”

Ingrid groaned into her hands.

Dorothea patted her on the back. “Why don’t you have another?”

After Dorothea had eaten her second, they agreed to split the last. The cheese had cooled enough so that it didn’t stretch anymore, though Dorothea lamented that they hadn’t been able to split it with their mouths.

“Is it strange?” Ingrid finally asked, as the sky turned a deep azure above their heads.

“Is what strange?”

The words felt like needles in her throat. “For me to bind my breasts.”

Dorothea looked at her, and Ingrid instantly felt as if she were gazing through her. “Are you doing it properly?”

“I haven’t had any trouble breathing today, apart from choking on my food,” Ingrid insisted. “And I haven’t had much… I don’t do it every day.” She looked away. “Just when…” Her hands shook, and she felt horribly betrayed.

“All right,” said Dorothea. “We don’t have to talk about why you’re doing it if you don’t want to.”

“Did you like it?” Ingrid met her gaze again.

Dorothea’s eyes widened. “Did I like it?”

“The look of it.”

Dorothea laughed, breathy and unaffected. “I have to say,” she said, “you looked quite dashing back there.”

Ingrid picked up the basket off the bench and walked across the plaza to hand it back to the vendor, vividly aware of the pressure around her chest. She hadn’t known much about it until she was stationed back at Enbarr following the war—what Ingrid did not tell Dorothea was that she got the idea from Manuela following a too-close encounter with a Demonic Beast and that Dorothea’s senior in the opera company was responsible for letting her know that such a thing existed at all, and that asking for advice for such things landed her in strange places frequented by stranger people and that she had trouble feeling like she belonged there. They did it for acting, sometimes, Manuela had told her. And then there were the people who were born one gender but lived out their whole lives as the other—or who wanted to and couldn’t, or who did and were ostracized for it.

The walk back to the bench felt too short, the wraps around her chest too tight. She’d barely felt it earlier in the day, but perhaps she’d just been wearing them for too long. She sat down beside Dorothea, silent.

Dorothea was quiet. Night hadn’t yet fallen, but the crowds around them were thinning. “Not a single person stopped me today,” she said. “They must have thought that a diva like me wouldn’t be caught dead eating fried foods with her fingers and threatening birds.”

“Is it so simple?” Ingrid asked.

Dorothea looked at her. “To change someone’s perception of you?” she asked, finally. “No. No, it isn’t. I should count myself lucky. The most hardcore of my fans must have had other business today. Perhaps they were too busy stalking someone else.”

“I bet they’d still love you, in spite of it all.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Dorothea chuckled. “Just look at these,” she gestured to her breasts, “I spent my whole life showing them off to people and now I’m finally starting to regret it. I could be green in the face and retching violently in front of them and they would still try to fuck me. It’s always the gross ones, too…” She sighed and leaned against the backrest. “It’s easy to assume a role in an opera, or a play. People are willing to suspend their disbelief for those three or four hours, but in real life? Not so much. Once they know you as one thing, that’s how they’ll know you forever. With complete strangers? I might have a chance. But to my fans? I’ll always be their Dorothea.”

“That sounds hard,” said Ingrid.

“Well, no one’s ever claimed that changing your identity would be easy.” She stood up and leaned over the railing, looking down into the canal. “I could run, you know. Go somewhere no one would recognize me. Take a new name. Start a new life. I might do away with the breasts. I don’t know.”

Ingrid stood up.

“This must sound totally selfish of me, complaining about fame and fortune when so many others—”

“It’s not.” Ingrid stood beside her, looking her in the eyes. She had never felt so sure of anything before.

Dorothea smiled. “You’re cute,” she said.

* * *

Always eager to be of service to her lady, Ingrid offered to escort Dorothea back to her apartment. It was only a few blocks from the opera house, and about ten minutes away from the Mittelfrank offices. Dorothea hadn’t exactly needed the help—as a mage, she was far more dangerous unarmed than Ingrid would ever be with a weapon—but she indulged Ingrid and allowed herself to be escorted anyway. Night had fallen over the city by the time they arrived.

Dorothea looked up. “The stars are out.”

Ingrid looked up at the sky. The sky was clear, and the stars out in full force, twinkling and shimmering like so many jewels in the darkness.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long,” said Dorothea. She patted Ingrid’s arm in apology. “I’ll be smarter about it next time, I promise.”

“Next time?” said Ingrid.

“Well, yes,” she said. “Are we not doing this again, my dear?”

Ingrid swallowed. “W-well… but I’m…”

Dorothea blinked. “Yes?”

She opened her mouth. “As friends?”

Dorothea smiled. “Is… there something wrong with that?”

There wasn’t, was there? Of course there wasn’t. Ingrid’s mouth immediately felt dry. “No. No, of course not.” She looked down at the ground. “I just…” This day hadn’t gone at all the way she’d been expecting. “I never told you why I…” She gasped.

“Take your time,” she said.

“I thought I would court you.” Ingrid blushed. “Well, not that I would court you, but if I did, what I would—shit,” she hissed. “I’m sorry.” She covered her face with her hand. “I’m not making any sense, am I?”

“No,” said Dorothea, “but that’s fine. Go on.”

Ingrid swallowed. “Would you want me? I mean, not as a woman, but as a…”

“As a man?” Dorothea ventured.

Ingrid was silent.

“Not as a woman.”

“Not as a woman,” Dorothea repeated. She chuckled quietly, hiding her mouth behind her hand. It was false laughter, meant to hide her unease; Ingrid could tell. “As what, then? As a knight?”

Ingrid gestured helplessly. “As myself.”

“As yourself.” Her eyes were sly. “What, pray tell, would this then entail?”

She shrugged. “Flowers?” she asked. “Horseback rides? I could praise you more, since I know you like that.”

Dorothea laughed again. “Ingrid, you could do that all day, and I don’t think I would ever grow sick of it. What else?”

“I… I don’t know.” She could feel her face growing hot. “I don’t know.” She wanted to serve her, that was what. Whatever Dorothea wanted from her—whatever was within her means to give—that was what she wanted. “I could take you away from here, if you wanted.” Ingrid laughed. “We could start new lives together, you and I.” She looked down at Dorothea’s chest. “You don’t even have to keep the breasts.”

“Oh, Ingrid.” Dorothea’s eyes shone in the moonlight. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve said to me all evening.”

“What would we do?” Ingrid asked. Her heart raced. “Where would we go?” And the most pressing question on her mind: _who would we be?_

“I don’t know,” said Dorothea. “But we have plenty of time to find out.” She held out her hand, palm up, and crooked her finger. “Come closer, my dear.”

Ingrid did. The kiss was brief and sweet and brimming with possibility. When Dorothea pulled away, her heart was pounding.

“Good night,” she said. Her hand lingered on Ingrid’s cheek.

When Dorothea turned away and left her on the street corner to gape stupidly into the opposing facades, it finally struck Ingrid what had actually happened. She fought back the urge to hop up and down and scream—and failed.

The next morning, Dorothea would one day tell her, was filled with rumors about exactly what (or whom) Dorothea had been doing in front of her apartment building the night before. True to her word, she only gave a single answer:

“Fuck off.”


End file.
